


Burn

by FangedAngel



Category: Catch Trap - Marion Zimmer Bradley
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:51:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/pseuds/FangedAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy gets a tattoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-novel, no proper spoilers.

It burns. Much like the reminder of alcohol at the back of his throat, but not as much as Bart's eyes on him, on his exposed skin, following the needle's course.

The parlor's just off Melrose, with a tiny nondescript entrance that gives nothing away about the world hidden within. There's only one artist and the place looks dingier than the ones he's seen in Berlin, if possible, but Bart said it's the best in LA and Tommy'd followed him inside, pushed by the alcohol or by the look in Bart's eyes or by the need to do this that's been building inside him for weeks.

The artist -Jeff- seems to be an old pal of Bart's, because he keeps talking to him without looking up from the needle marking Tommy's skin. He talks about his partner, who one day just "fucked off to San Francisco" and Tommy breathes, inhaling, exhaling, his eyelids fluttering shut for a second, opening to find Bart standing closer, looking at him.

Tommy can feel his cheeks burning like his skin burns where the needle leaves a lasting trail and he winces when Jeff starts to work on shadows and letters, shivering when Jeff sighs in reply to Bart's words -the ones Tommy hasn't heard- his breath fanning over Tommy's exposed skin.

He feels almost too vulnerable like this. He hasn't had enough to drink to stop thinking about Matt, about Matt's reaction to a tattoo, to this particular tattoo on Tommy's skin, barely hidden from view, barely a secret, masked only by the waistband of Tommy's pants or his tights but still there, always there. Maybe he should have asked, but he rebels against that thought because Matt isn't supposed to take decisions and it's a part of Matt anyway, a part of them.

He can feel every tiny letter being branded on him, black ink on reddening skin, the same ink that he can almost taste, more than the tequila shot Bart told him to down in one, more than the adrenalin that's starting to rush through him. If the parlor smells of anything, it smells of ink and of the alcohol Jeff uses as disinfectant, the one he rubbed into Tommy's skin before carefully applying the stencil. Jeff's a very talented artist, Tommy can give him that, and not swishy at all, clad in leather from head to toe. Tommy fully expects there to be a motorcycle waiting for Jeff somewhere, and he can imagine him on the freeway, rebel-length hair tangled by the breeze of the ocean. He wonders whether Bart's had him and the thought makes his cheeks flush with color and Bart frowns at him.

"I should've taken you to lunch first. Are you dizzy or anything?"

"We had a huge breakfast at Lu's, I'm still full. I'm OK. It burns."

"Like everything good in life."

Bart grins at Jeff and Tommy's too distracted to be bothered by the innuendo, to be bothered by the fact that he knows exactly what they're talking about. Three years since he's known Bart and it's taken him less than that to stop trying to pretend he doesn't belong to the same underworld Bart and Jeff belong to. He should know these things. They're part of him now. They've always been part of him.

"You think he'll like this?"

He doesn't miss the glance that passes between Bart and Jeff, Bart shrugging and Jeff rolling his eyes before curving the needle around an 's'.

"He will, Tom. It's even better than the actual medal. You'll never lose it."

"And it's blasphemy of the highest level. Think of all the things this tattoo will be a witness to. I'm real glad you came to me with this, boys."

Jeff looks all too pleased when he finishes the tattoo and Tommy has to grin at him because it's perfect, better than the medal itself, the medal he's carried around with him for so many years he nearly forgot its presence, the medal that's still clutched in his hand after he showed it to Jeff. It feels like hours since he walked into Jeff's world, and when he catches sight of the clock on the counter, Tommy realizes it's not just a feeling.

He pulls his shirt on and rearranges his clothes, wincing at the feel of denim against the gauze covering tender skin before he catches the dismayed look on Bart's face. He can't not laugh but his laughter sounds like it belongs to someone else's. One tequila shot and adrenaline in his veins. Or was it two shots?

"You'll see it again."

"It's never soon enough, darling."

He'd still punch anyone else in the face for calling him that, no matter the progress he's made, that much Tommy's sure of. And Bart knows it, which is why Bart teases him mercilessly, in front of anyone who's wise to them.

He moves away after he pays, shrugging off Bart's attempt to pull out his own wallet, giving Jeff and Bart a moment alone. He overhears their next words without meaning to before he's out of earshot.

"How come you're not keeping him? He's perfect. That red hair and those freckles and that skin. He nearly distracted me from my work, and that never happens. I wish Cal would see me with someone like that by my side, that would teach the jackass. You're lucky to have him nearby."

"He's not mine to keep. Thanks for everything, sweetheart. You're as amazing as always."

"Maybe one day you'll let me do you."

"The studio would kill me. They own me, remember? See you soon anyway, I need to take the kid home."

Tommy doesn't hear the rest of it because he hurries over to his one-year old MG. He doesn't sit on the driver's side like he usually does because he doesn't trust himself with LA's traffic right now and it's a long drive home. Bart follows right after, getting behind the wheel and throwing his Hollywood smile at Tommy.

"I knew that would be a good idea. You liked Jeff, right?"

"He's as good as you said he is. Better even. Listen, Bart, we could...we could stop by your house, I mean, I don't want you going home alone like this, I didn't want to tease you back there. I didn't know you'd look at me like that."

Bart doesn't meet his eyes, focused on driving, but his fingers are gripping the wheel too tightly. When Tommy's hand touches his thigh, he nearly jumps out of his skin, startled laughter rushing out in a breath.

"It's fine, Tom. This is for Matt. I'll get to enjoy it later. I have to be on a plane to New York tomorrow, I need my beauty sleep. I'm getting old and lack of sleep shows."

Tommy scowls at the words, thumb drawing patterns across the expensive cloth of the pants covering Bart's thigh. He could swear Bart stops breathing for a second, and it makes him smile, the power teasing gives him mixing with the adrenaline in a heady rush. He can't stop, not until Bart pulls over in a hopefully secluded corner, not until he climbs onto Bart's lap, straddling his legs, not until he claims Bart's lips, Bart's mouth, not until he trails thousands of kisses down the column of Bart's throat, nibbling at his jaw, the shadow of stubble pricking him, reminding him. He doesn't feel like he usually does, still, despite the years, shy and awkward. He feels in control, the tattoo burning on his skin. Bart wants him, his want colliding with Tommy's, and it's all lust, all raw need. He can't not give him this, at least this, until they see each other next. He can't not kiss Bart until his lips feel as tender as the skin next to his hipbone.

"You're a dangerous boy, Tommy. I keep forgetting. I'll think of you tonight. I'll think of you and him, you with him and that tattoo as a witness. Don't rub against it too much or it won't heal well, by the way, Jeff told me to remind you."

Bart breathes against him, against Tommy's lips, and it's like they share the same breath, like they share the same need. Their foreheads meet in their search for tranquility and Tommy knows this is enough, knows they shouldn't attempt anything more now, here, even though he can feel Bart against the knee he's slipped between Bart's thigh, even though he knows Bart can feel him in return.

The tattoo burns him, a searing reminder, and he moves off, allowing Bart a few more steadying breaths before he resumes driving.

"Not a boy anymore, Bart."

"No. But you're still my boy. Matt's boy, and mine."

The rest of the drive goes by in silence, Tommy's head pressed to the window, eyes falling shut every now and then, his body trying to cope with all the rushes of emotions he's given it today.

~

The house came before the MG, the winter they realized that after a season and after numerous TV contracts that Johnny got them in between, they'd done pretty well for themselves. They found the bungalow close to the beach through one of Bart's connections, who obviously didn't turn up his nose at two men sharing a house and a contract on it, and who, out of wanting to get rid of the bungalow as fast as possible in order to maintain the mansion he'd bought on Beverly, sold it to them cheaper than they could have hoped for.

Matt sometimes jokes about how they should baptize it "Lawton" but Tommy knows that it has nothing to do with Oklahoma because their happiness now is more complete than it ever could have been back then.

It's perfect for them, just enough space, more than enough light, the spare bedroom no one ever uses long since converted into a training room due to its high ceiling. They go to the Santelli house every other day, but it's nice having this much privacy after years of hiding at all times, feeling hunted even when there was no one around. It's nice just touching Matt whenever he wants to, it's nice to see Matt so relaxed, not looking over his shoulder at all times, not ashamed.

Tommy trips right when the front door is opening and Bart's arm is too late in catching him, so Tommy ends up crashing into Matt, who steadies him with a bemused frown. Tommy would describe the sound he makes as a chuckle, but he knows full well it's more of a giggle, and Matt stares at him before looking over his shoulder at Bart.

"You got him drunk?"

Matt sounds perplexed and Tommy laughs again, unable to help himself, and also unwilling to let go of Matt, who sighs in reply, not pushing him away.

"Just a shot of tequila and he's no lightweight. He's not drunk, he's just giddy. You'll see why. We've been busy today."

"I thought you were going to take him to your place after the rally."

Tommy breathes in the smell of a recently taken shower on Matt's skin, lips nuzzling Matt's neck, fully aware of Bart's eyes on him, on them.

"No, we had other things to do. Another time, OK? I have a plane to catch in the morning, so if you don't mind calling me a cab?"

They all step inside and Matt moves away. Tommy waves a goodbye at Bart and Bart winks at him. He goes to the bedroom, their bedroom, his and Matt's, taking off his shirt but not his jeans, lying on the bed, sprawled over the sheets. He listens to all the sounds of the house and he hears when Bart leaves, hears the door being locked, hears the lights being turned off in their living room, hears Matt's barely-audible footsteps coming closer until Matt's leaning on the door, looking him up and down until Tommy feels like squirming.

"Bart told me to enjoy my surprise. Where should I look for it?"

Tommy grins at him, nervous even though he won't admit to it. Matt closes the door, walking over to the bed, standing next to it, his eyes on Tommy's, a wicked glint in them that Tommy loves, that Tommy always wants to see.

"He said it's somewhere hidden from view. Somewhere on you."

Matt sounds hungry and Tommy shivers. He asks himself what must go through Matt's mind whenever he's with Bart, away from him, in someone else's bed. He knows it's not a problem between them, but he wonders whether Matt thinks of him, of Bart touching him, like Bart thinks of Matt touching Tommy during the nights he sleeps alone.

The tattoo burns but it's nothing like the way Matt's eyes burn him, Matt's fingers on his lips preventing Tommy from speaking. Tommy spreads his legs and Matt kneels between them, trailing his hands down Tommy's body until he reaches the waistband of Tommy's jeans, his thumb tracing the line it creates, the momentary barrier.

"Must be here, I guess. Hidden from view."

"Easy."

Tommy gasps when Matt pulls the fly down, popping the button. Matt looks at him, a flicker of concern, but Tommy nods and Matt pulls the jeans off, slowly, along with the briefs underneath. Matt sees the tattoo immediately. He seems transfixed by it, dropping Tommy's clothes next to the bed and just staring at it, peeling back the gauze gently, fingers hovering over red skin marked by black ink.

"Don't touch."

"I'm not stupid, Lucky."

Matt settles on touching the skin in the immediate area, and Tommy's breath catches. He feels exposed with Matt, still too dressed, kneeling over him, watching him like he can't take his eyes off him, like he can't even blink.

"You like it? I kept thinking I really want you to like it."

Matt looks up at him, focusing on Tommy's face instead of on the tattoo, his eyes dark, his hair falling into his eyes, in need of a haircut that Tommy won't remind Matt about anytime soon, not when he can hang on to the sensation of tangling his fingers in it whenever he wants to.

"I like it. You knew I'd like it. We can't let anyone see, though. Saint Michael won't pray for us any time soon."

"He has so far."

The letters burn on his skin, the image of Michael slaying Satan in the guise of a dragon, a spear clutched in his hand, the circle enclosing the image, a medal on Tommy's skin, as real as they come, a medal tinged in a fine irony that he wanted there in the first place.

"Did it hurt? I should've been there."

Matt's fingers, feigning innocence, trace patterns over Tommy's skin, from his navel up to his collarbone, mapping every inch in between, barely-there, like he's playing, like he's not making Tommy arch into him with the need he can't mask.

"It wasn't bad. We went to a pal of Bart's. He appreciated the design."

"And he appreciated you, no doubt. Did Bart watch you?"

"Every second."  
"And you came right back home to me."

Tommy nods, catching his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from squirming when Matt's fingers become more insistent, applying more pressure. Matt holds his gaze, unwavering, a lazy smile curling his lips, and Tommy groans, hating and loving him when he's like this, when he takes his time until Tommy wants to beg him for it, for everything.

"I wanted to show you. It's something for us."

"It is. You came to me, ready for me, even though he wanted to fuck you more than he ever did before."

Tommy shivers, trying to see Matt's thoughts, the ones that are never written on his face, trying not to reach for Matt's hand only to push it lower.

"I needed you."

Matt leans over him to claim a kiss, careful not to touch the tattoo, tugging on Tommy's lip before nibbling on his jaw, on the curve of his neck.

"You smell like him."

"I kissed him. I wanted to give him something, didn't want him to go back home like that. I made him pull over and I kissed him, the look in his eyes, he...do you want me like he wants me, Matt?"

Matt freezes, staring at him with disbelief written all over him, Santelli eyebrows drawn in a frown.

"Where the hell did that come from? A little late to ask me a question like that, don't you think?"

"Sometimes I don't know."

"Lucky."

Matt's hand cups Tommy's cheek, warm, and Tommy shakes his head because he's never been good with words and Matt's always been worse.

"Nothing, just...just touch me."

Matt's still frowning at him, and Tommy knows that he's considering going on with the conversation but Tommy can't face that, not now, not more waiting, and Matt knows, because Matt knows all of him, always has. His hands trail lower in unison until they reach his flank and they leave his skin, followed by Matt's lips, by the tickle of Matt's hair, until Matt's kneeling between his thighs again, pulling his shirt off with practiced movements. Casual clothes won't ever do him justice, not like the tights that cling to his legs, but it's probably because Matt's made for being up in the air, not out on the street wearing whatever society supposes he should. Tommy's still fascinated with Matt's body whenever it is discovered to him under layers of clothes. After years of not spending precious time studying each other in detail in bed, Tommy's had time to learn every single part of Matt by touch, aware of Matt at all times, even when they're at the store, especially when he's in the catch trap, waiting for Matt's hands to find his.

"I want you, Lucky. I want you more than anyone will ever be able to want you."

It's something Matt would never have said, only months ago, but things have changed. The pressure on Matt's shoulders has decreased ever since they've had the house, their own space, their own rules, with no one prying, no one judging. Matt can be whomever he wants to be here, with Tommy, and it's what Tommy's always wanted to give him, but gifts like these, like these words, so easily spoken, still manage to surprise Tommy, still manage to take his breath away, like Matt's fingers drawing a circle around the tattoo. The look in his eyes holds more intensity than Bart's ever will be able to, but Tommy, who knows it should have been enough warning, gasps, loudly, when Matt's hand finds him, wrapping around him, when Matt's lips follow, when Matt's mouth-

He grabs the sheets underneath him, unable to control his breathing, to stop it from sounding so desperate, so needy, but he doesn't care because it's too much, because he can't cope with this, because they barely ever do this, because there's a word still hanging in between them, an insult that still haunts them, Matt's voice curling around it, cruel, Tommy kneeling in the sand, furious tears running down his face, his shoulder in agony. The memory fades now, with Tommy saying Matt's name, over and over, his fingers in Matt's hair, Matt's hands, warm, on Tommy's hips. It's not until Tommy pleads with him to stop that Matt pays any attention to him and when he moves up Tommy's body again, Tommy's shaking, staring at Matt's lips, a deep color that matches Matt's flushed cheeks. He pulls Matt to him, almost violent, kissing him, exploring the taste on his tongue, moaning into his mouth, his fingers clawing at Matt's shoulders, his body straining under Matt's, not even caring about the burn of the tattoo, but Matt's still careful not to let their bodies meet.

“C’mon, now, please.”

Matt laughs, kisses him again, his hands pinning Tommy’s arms to the bed.

“I think I like it when you beg, Lucky.”

Tommy’s breathless, aching, burning, wanting everything at once, wanting this to go on forever, wanting it to end.

“Matt…”

It sounds more like whining than pleading, but Tommy thinks it’s enough anyway, because Matt kisses him again, viciously, biting at him, the ever-present wildness of his emotions at the surface now, untamed, overwhelming, and Tommy replies to it in kind, shivering, arching into it, into Matt, despite the burn, because of the burn.

“Just do it, come on.”

The sound he gets in reply makes him dizzy with need, more than Matt’s fingers digging into his skin, in the cut of his hips, more than Matt’s lips sucking a vivid bruise on Tommy’s neck, more than their bodies meeting, colliding, more than realizing that Matt is still careful not to touch the tattoo, more than the ink still burning on his skin.

Matt whispers things Tommy can’t understand against Tommy’s lip when their bodies finally fit together like they need to, when the burn of ink fades in favor of the burn inside him, the burn that obliterates everything, his sanity, his reason, the burn that addicted him long ago.

The sounds that are ripped from their throats are inhuman, and Tommy thinks for a second that he will never be able to catch his breath again, that he will never need air again, that all he’ll ever need is the burn and their bodies joined and the darkness of Matt’s eyes, and the damp pinkness of Matt’s lips and Matt’s fingers on his skin, nowhere close to gentle, not when he’s like this, and Matt’s breath, just Matt’s breath, just Matt.

He enjoys the freedom to be loud, to hear himself gasp and moan and choke on words, to hear Matt like this, to scream when he comes instead of muffling every sound in a pillow. And Matt loves hearing him, loves hearing everything, loves seeing him, just like Tommy loves it, loves the luxury of doing this without bolted doors, without the need for darkness and silence and fear.

He pulls Matt down for a kiss that can’t be anything other than messy because he can’t think and he knows Matt can’t either, because Matt’s pulse matches Tommy’s in frenzied rhythm and there’s nothing organized about this, nothing logical.

“You’re mine.”

He doesn’t think the words, he just says them and then they’re out in the open and he can feel Matt’s back stiffen, tense, under his hands and a hint of fear creeps in, unwanted, before Matt spits out a feral-sounding “yes”, before Matt starts moving harder, faster than he ever has, and Tommy moves to meet him, in sync after so many years, his legs twining around Matt’s waist, the tattoo safe. Tommy can hear the bed creaking underneath their weight, can hear it moving against the wall; he can feel drops of sweat trailing a tickling path down his torso, he can feel his fingernails digging into Matt’s back, he can feel Matt leaving his fingerprints on the skin covering his hips, he can feel the burn, consuming him, consuming them, owning them, making them who they are, one heartbeat, one being. He feels like he’s in the catch trap now, upside down and swinging, swinging in the air, with nothing beneath him to break his fall, swinging, reaching for Matt’s hands, for his wrists, striving for that perfect moment, the moment of the perfect catch.

Matt’s the one who finishes first, Matt’s the one who kisses Tommy when Tommy follows his cue, prompted by the feel of Matt inside him, prompted by Matt’s lips and fierce words and then it’s over and he breathes, over and over again until his body’s taken over by a lazy lull and he can barely move his fingers. Matt’s the one who cleans him up with a damp towel that tickles down his sides, Matt’s the one who checks the red skin around Tommy’s tattoo, the one who lets a sigh fan over the ink to soothe the burn.

Matt’s the one who holds him as they both doze off, and Matt’s the one who calls Bart when Tommy goes into the bathroom for a shower. Tommy can hear Matt when he’s done, his words, his laughter filtering into the bedroom, but he doesn’t go to him, not now.

He trails the edges of the tattoo with a finger, the Saint Michael’s medal burnt on his skin, part of him now, part of what is theirs, part of this world they share, part of the boy he used to be and the man he’s become, part of the man he loves.

He thinks the word he’s looking for as he studies himself in the mirror is happiness but he doesn’t want to anger any of Matt’s saints, so he keeps the word to himself, like another perfect secret, and he crawls back into bed, waiting for Matt to come to him, waiting for the comfort of Matt’s body pressed to his to lull him to sleep.


End file.
